Fringe Benefits
by Rhianwen
Summary: [SyndromeMirage, unashamed goofiness] My particularly silly take on how they might have met. Syndrome has a bad hairday, meets the girl of his dreams, and makes out with a guy. Not necessarily in that order.


Fringe Benefits

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Disclaimer: I did not create, and do not own, either Mirage or Syndrome. I also don't own Aeris, Sephiroth, Cloud, Vegeta, Goku, Gohan, Paine, or Paul Phoenix. Heck, I don't even know who the last one is.

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Summary: Syndrome/Mirage My take on a particularly silly "how they met" scenario. Syndrome has a bad hair-day, meets the girl of his dreams, and makes out with a guy. Not necessarily in that order.

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It was not a good day to be Syndrome.

First, he had been compelled to roll out of bed and stumble to his feet after the wake-up call he had requested last night – while drunk and stupid, he would adamantly declare until the end of his days – had turned ugly.

Who knew that, upon phoning several times, knocking several more, and involving an air horn, the bellhop would take drastic action, utilizing a spare key and the Sleeping Beauty approach to scare a (violent) reaction from the sleeping redhead?

Yes, Syndrome had discovered the hard way that young Steve Hopkins needed a mint, and badly.

Next, his thoughts of making An Entrance by taking his Very Favourite Vehicle to a meeting with some potential clients had quickly evaporated in the little red line of the gas gauge hovering peacefully over the 'E'.

Not that he hadn't tried, anyway. But Syndrome had learned a hard lesson that day: not many gas stations, whether self-serve or full service, are willing to fill a reasonably large jet shaped distinctly like a manta ray, a lettuce leaf, or Florida, depending on one's angle and mental state at the time of viewing.

Thus had he learned his second hard lesson of the day: it is exceedingly difficult to contact a cab during rush hour, particularly when one insists upon catching one's flies – or cabs, rather – with vinegar instead of honey.

After the fifth cab service slammed down the phone indignantly upon being called all manner of not terribly pleasant names by a distraught boy genius, Syndrome decided that the situation was getting desperate.

Yes, he would have to…walk.

And so, after a grueling five blocks, he had arrived at the specified building, ten minutes before the meeting was to begin.

Which, ideally, was a clear signal of the beginning of the end of his bad luck.

Until he chanced to glance absently at the mirror that formed one of the walls of the room that the receptionist had directed him to, to wait.

"Aw, geez," he whined rather frantically, staring in dismay at his reflection.

The deep brown business suit that he had donned under heavy protest for the meeting was crisply pressed, completely wrinkle-free, and as the shopgirl had assured him, did wonderful things for his complexion.

His gloves and involved mechanical cuffs that just happened to have the ability to rob anything of its gravity were likewise just fine.

He was as cleanly shaven as though he had actually shaved that morning, he reflected no more sourly than a twenty-five year old man who had never used a razor in his life and still with no hint of facial hair might.

However, his _hair_-hair was a decided problem; it was sticking out all over the place, in every conceivable direction! Dammit, it was only supposed to stick _up_!

"Mr. Syndrome?"

He froze at the low, velvety female voice calling softly through the closed door.

"Uh, what?" He shook himself. "Is it meeting time?"

"Not yet. I'm afraid we're running a bit late. Mr. Jameson sent me to find out if you needed anything. May I come in?"

_If I need anything...?_

"Wait a second!" he called, making one last futile attempt at sweeping his hair back into some semblance of decorum, and sprinting to the door.

At which point he spent several more seconds staring blankly at the girl smiling politely, hands tucked decorously behind her back, long slivery-blonde hair gleaming softly in the room's mellow light, bright golden-green eyes – cat-eyes, he thought hazily – betraying a glimmer of laughter that her completely benign and neutral expression showed no sign of.

Okay, things were either looking up, or becoming catastrophically worse.

"Uh…hi," he greeted, raking his hand back through his hair one last time. "I'm Buddy—uh, Syndrome."

Her smile betrayed another few glimmers.

"Well, whichever one it is, it's nice to meet you. I'm Alexandra Turetta."

Leaning against the doorframe in what he hoped was a casual pose, he nodded, smiling hugely.

A long moment passed.

"Er…Mr. Syndrome? Was there anything you needed?" she finally prompted.

_Yes! Dear God, yes!_

"It might be a lot of trouble," he said dubiously.

"Don't worry; they _did_ send me to see if you needed anything," she reminded him, considerably more cheerfully than she might have mere seconds ago.

Somehow, finding out that years of schooling (certainly, more than the rest of the high-school dropouts that were being paid twice her salary to do the same job half as well), and a list of excellent references, qualified her as the first choice to be demoted to personal attendant at a moment's notice was a lot easier to take in light of unnaturally bright blue eyes sparking with energy and life. Not to mention, that _smile_.

"Well, okay. Miss Turetta, could you do me a really huge favour?"

One narrow, pale eyebrow lifted.

"I suppose that would depend on the favour," she replied, letting her smile grow just a bit playful.

He gasped in mock outrage.

"Hey, what do you think I'm going to ask you for? I'm a gentleman!"

"No, you're a _business_man," she corrected with a soft laugh.

He gave a brief snort of disbelief.

"Are you serious? I'm a creative genius trying to _pass _as a businessman."

"Mmm. Which must be why I haven't felt the rising urge to murder you with your own tie and shove you into a potted plant yet," she mused, then cleared her throat as he looked at her strangely. "Ah, what was it you needed?"

"Hair gel," he replied immediately. "Uh, I walked here, and it's windy outside today, and I've kinda got a lot of hair, and...uh, here." He reached into his pocket for a bundle of cash, and shoved it at her. "Buy a lot. You can keep the change."

"Come on," she ordered, shoving past him and grabbing his arm on her way, dragging him into the room and then peering carefully to her left and right down the hallway before pushing the door shut.

"Uh..." Syndrome said eloquently as she led him to a chair and all but shoved him down into it.

"Don't worry; I'm good at this. We won't need any gel, by the way."

"No, I don't think you get what I'm trying to do," he protested, taking hold of his hair and lifting until it stood straight up in an approximation of his normal style. "I need it to do _this_."

"I don't think that should be a problem. Would you like to see some photos of past satisfied customers?"

Before he could put forth more of a response than bewilderedly opening and closing his mouth a few times, Alex withdrew a tiny photo album from her purse.

"Aeris Gainsborough," he read from the bottom of the first photo, of a clearly much younger Alex Turetta with her arm around an extraordinarily pretty pink-clad brunette.

"That's my work," she informed him proudly, pointing out the brunette's bangs, which seemed to shoot up about five inches from the top of her forehead, forming graceful arcs.

"Not bad," Syndrome said thoughtfully. He flipped to the next page, and blinked at the image of the same adolescent version of his current companion, edging nervously away from a very tall man with silvery white hair flowing well past his hips, gravity-defying bangs very much like those of the brunette he had just seen, and piercing green eyes. And an exceedingly long sword strapped to his back. As he read the name on the bottom, written in dainty feminine script, he snorted in disbelief. "Sephiroth, huh? Ooh, look at me! I'm too much of a badass to have a last name!"

Alex barely managed to stifle a laugh.

"And what was your last name again, Mr. Syndrome?"

"Okay, fine, point taken," he grumbled good-naturedly, flipping several more pages. "Goku, Gohan, and Vegeta…I'm guessing this is some kind of club. Cloud Strife. Ouch. Spikiest cloud I've ever seen."

"This is one of the more…unique styles I've ever done," she said after an indulgent smile, gesturing to a young woman in bits of leather, wielding a massive sword with a skull-patterened hilt in one hand, her other arm slung around Li'l Alex's shoulders. Then, noticing Syndrome's grin at the child's adoring, ecstatic expression, she ducked her head sheepishly. "Paine was sort of my…childhood hero."

The young man nodded grimly.

"Oh, I know about that. Everyone needs a childhood hero. Nothing else focuses your rage like being betrayed by the person you admired most sweeping you aside like you're nothing."

"Mr. Syndrome?"

"Yeah?"

"Please stop trying to rip the arm off the chair."

As the smoke curling up from his ears dissipated, he looked down at the half-detached chair arm in his hand, and laughed sheepishly.

"Sorry about that."

Then, as he glanced back down at the next photo, his eyes widened. He carefully took in every detail of the young man's unique style , thick blond hair standing straight up from his head in one solid mass. "Ooh, I like your work! Paul Phoenix, huh?"

"Mr. Phoenix was referred to me by Mr. Strife. He was looking for something original, and...well, I'd say he got it."

"Simple, yet outrageous."

"I was eleven; sue me."

"Eleven! How long have you been doing this?"

"I started at six, as soon as my parents discovered that they might be able to make some money from it. But I haven't styled any hair but my own since...well, since the ban."

"Wait a second," Syndrome groaned, one hand pressed to his eyes. "You're a Super?"

"_I_ wouldn't call it that," Alex said emphatically. "What kind of useless power is _hair-styling_?"

"Geez," he sighed. "Alright, Miss Turetta; I generally hate Supers – everyone needs a personal mission statement, right? – but I'm desperate, and there's probably no time to go get hair gel anymore, and the meeting's starting any second, so...let's see what you can do."

"You know how to sweet-talk a woman, don't you?" she chuckled, hands already sliding back into his hair and lifting it deftly into position. One quick twist, and she stepped back, head tilted to the side, observing her work critically. "I think we're finished. It might be a little less _polished_ than you usually wear, but keep in mind, it is my first attempt with the style."

He blinked, prodding gingerly at his newly restored hairstyle.

"Alright, let's see."

Alex pulled out a pocket mirror and flipped it open. His eyes widened.

"That's unbelievable!" he muttered under his breath, before looking adoringly up at the woman standing in front of him. "You're as good as...like, a whole case of hair gel!"

"And he's still trying to lay on the flattery," she commented aside to the coffee table. "I'm glad you like it. And don't worry; it'll hold through almost anything – wind, rain, snow, battle, raining plummeting stabbity death down upon unsuspecting young women, burial in a lake, Super-Saiyanism—"

"Your clients were all crazy, weren't they?"

"—but it should come out effortlessly with your next shower."

Before Syndrome could comment further, an insistent knocking drew their attention to the door.

"Alex! What the hell are you doing in there? The meeting's starting!"

"Sorry, Mr. Jameson," she called back, rolling her eyes. "We'll be right there!" She turned to Syndrome. "Shall we?"

--

And so, he let her lead him from the room, gloomily certain that his hairdo was going to come crashing down right in the middle of the meeting.

It was only so long, though, before his attention became so absorbed in the matter of negotiation, that he completely forgot to worry.

Okay, so maybe, these guys were all pitifully stupid for a supposedly _known and respected_ weapons manufacturer, but there was something kind of fun about putting forth ridiculous demands and watching them squirm at his completely unorthodox style of negotiation.

All but one.

Within ten minutes, his lovely Miss Alex had come to the full realization that none of her _managers_ or _greater equals_ were going to do anything to save them from being utterly taken by this man who had _clearly_ been lying when he'd claimed he wasn't much of a businessman. From here, they'd spent a most enjoyable hour bouncing suggestions and offers and counter-offers – both business-related and completely personal – back and forth beneath the startled eyes of everyone else in the massive, richly decorated meeting room.

By the end of that meeting, at which point he found himself talked down to little more than half his original asking price for what he liked to call his These-People-Might-Hurt-Themselves-With-Anything-More-Dangerous Package, he had made his decision.

And once a decision was made, Buddy Pine was never one to hold off on executing it.

Thus did he rush immediately from the meeting hall at the end of the meeting, and lurk behind the massive oak doors until a familiar grey suit and tawny golden skin and silvery-blonde hair emerged.

"Ack!" Alex shrieked in bewildered dismay as she found her arm seized and, along with the rest of her, dragged behind the door.

She forgot to be either bewildered or dismayed, or anything else that didn't have to do with making happy noises, when Mr. Syndrome caught her around the waist and dipped her into a passionate kiss.

"Marry me," he breathed against her shoulder once he had righted her again.

She pulled back.

"You do remember that we've only just met today," she said, trying to fight back a slightly giddy grin.

He frowned.

"Oh, yeah. Well, how about a job?"

"I have a job."

He grinned.

"Call me crazy, but I don't think you like it all that much. Why don't I multiply your pay by about four times, throw in room and board, and tell you about the miles of gorgeous beaches, the complimentary black string bikini, and the full use of company vehicles on and off the island?"

"What's the catch?"

"Well…you might have me for a roommate," he replied, eyes wide and innocent.

She laughed.

"And the down-side? Although," she added, amusement fading, "I'd like to know exactly what you're hiring me to do."

"W-well…"

"Ah. Your personal stylist."

"And negotiator! And…well, some other things," he added uneasily.

She regarded him suspiciously.

"And will these other things entail looking after a lot of portly, middle-aged little boys who think they're ruling the world?"

He fidgeted nervously.

"If, by _looking after_, you mean _quickly and quietly assassinating_, I'm afraid so."

She sent him a full-out grin, so dazzling that he could have sworn his knees were starting to melt a bit.

"Another couple months here, and I might have agreed to do _that_ for free."

"Dammit!" he muttered with exaggerated dismay. "Shoulda waited two more months." The he laughed. "No way, babe, you're worth an investment."

"Of course," she said, draping her arms over his shoulders and leaning in for another kiss. "After all, I _am_ just as good as a whole case of hair gel."

--

End Notes: Yes, I made her a Super. I like the idea as much as anyone else, with the slight difference that I have this extreme love for Completely Useless Superpowers. Not to mention, there has to be some explanation for how he gets his hair like that. Outside of several hours every morning in front of the mirror.


End file.
